In the Ghetto A Songfic
by green.pepsi.cola
Summary: It's not really 'The Outsiders', but it was inspired by plot events of the S.E. Hinton novel. ONE SHOT. Critisism appriciated.


(**A/N**: I know it sounds a bit like 'The Outsiders' itself (ok a lot), but I tried… so don't kill me!)

Set to: In the Ghetto – Elvis Presley

**In The Ghetto**

A Song-fic

_As the snow flies  
On a cold and gray Chicago mornin'  
A poor little baby child is born  
In the ghetto  
And his mama cries  
Because if there's one thing that she don't need  
It's another hungry mouth to feed  
In the ghetto  
(In the ghetto) _

That's him. Dallas Jones. 17 years old, 6'4, black hair, brooding dark brown eyes, medium skin. The only one I ever loved. He was born on January 5, 1980. Chicago, Illinois. Strange how things happen. Sometimes he talked to me. He knew my secret. I didn't need to tell him. He sensed it. I know he knew it. Texas Holland, 16 years old, 6'0, light blonde hair, black eyes, fair skin, lots of freckles. And I've known Dallas Jones since the day I was born. Our names are quite odd, don't you think? Well that's what you get stuck with when your mom's reading S.E. Hinton's 'Tex' when she's pregnant with you. At 15. I don't mind. I like my name, thank you very much. It wasn't coincidence that Dallas was named what he was. His mother had lived there. Ok, and she'd been reading S.E. Hinton's work also, only it was 'The Outsiders'. She was 22, and with 3 children already. Dallas was a surprise. My mother was there when he was born. His mother was crying. She knew she couldn't take care of him. He was an ugly baby, I've been told. But then again, so was I. No one knew what would happen to that poor, little ugly baby. Although some assimilated he would leave before he was 21.

_People, don't you understand  
This child needs a helping hand  
Or he'll grow to be an angry young man some day  
Now take a look at you and me,  
Are we too blind to see,  
Or do we simply turn our heads  
And look the other way _

Everyone shunned our mothers. They were both pregnant at the same time. They ridiculed mine because of her young age, and his because of the increasing amount of children she had. We had a lot in common. We were both poor. We were both troubled. Both shunned. Both told by society we were dirt. Both fatherless, which we were told was wrong. Grew up together, inseparable. Just friends. No one expected anything of us, so we didn't expect anything from us.

He was ignored, and the youngest of 4, so he didn't exactly get too much extra attention. But I loved him. And his mother tried. I could not believe what had happened, when it happened.

_Well the world turns  
And a hungry little boy with a runny nose  
Plays in the street as the cold wind blows  
In the ghetto  
(In the ghetto) _

The street in front of our houses was our playground. We sometimes found nickels on the street, or a stranger would have pity on us and give us each a quarter, and we'd go to the bakery. But it was never enough to fill him up. He was always hungry, even more hungry than I was. Hungry for something more. We were dirty, I was a tomboy, and he was a tough little kid. We got into street fights with other children, and nearly always had a scrape of some sort. Being so close, we shared everything, sometimes having sleepovers. To him, I was just a friend to play with, and not be bored. It never really dawned on him that he and I were different, if only by gender. We were equals. And because what troubles a grown-up will never trouble a child, we did not stop to think about love. We had never heard of it, except from the stories our mothers told us when we were small.

_And his hunger burns  
So he starts to roam the streets at night  
And he learns how to steal  
And he learns how to fight  
In the ghetto  
(In the ghetto) _

At about 14 he started to change. I could hardly believe it when he came running into the empty lot down the street from where we lived, a place where we sometimes hung out, and told me he had stolen shoes from a store. "I stole them for you." He told me. He didn't understand that it was wrong, even if he was just trying to do right by me. I affirmed that it was ok to steal when I thanked him and accepted the black and green hightops, for I was a bit greedy myself. I had never owned anything so nice and clean and incredibly expensive. Unknowingly, my childish pride led him to steal other things for me and himself. I helped him to his ultimate doom. One time, and I was very thankful for it, he saved me and fought off someone who had tried to harm me. I could tell by the hardening look in his eyes that he was beginning to fall away from me. Even if he was protecting me. I told myself it was alright to steal and fight, so I started doing so as well. I lied to myself all the time. But I never believed me.

_Then one night in desperation  
The young man breaks away  
He buys a gun, steals a car,  
Tries to run, but he don't get far  
And his mama cries _

He'd been saving up his money after that. I could not believe it when, at 17, he bought that pistol. He called me from a payphone and told me this. He also told me of his plan to steal a truck and come to get me, so we could run away together and start anew. Together. I was foolish. He ended up stealing a Chevy pick-up. He was followed by the police as he fled the scene. He reached our street in front of my house, and that's where his plans were shattered. I lost part of myself that day.

_As a crowd gathers 'round an angry young man  
Face down on the street with a gun in his hand  
In the ghetto  
(In the ghetto) _

I'd rushed outside to meet him, only to find a crowd of neighbors gawking at him. He looked up at me and the only thing I saw was those pleading eyes. They'd never been like that before. He was begging me to help him, but I couldn't. 'I love you', he had whispered. One of the cops' bullets had made contact with him. I sat down next to him. The police did nothing as I fell to my knees and pulled him into my lap. I leaned down and kissed him, right there, as he lay dying. I cradled him, tears streaming down my face, until he was gone. The police tried to pry me away from him, but I held on tightly, weeping, refusing to let him go. They left me there.

_And as her young man dies,  
(In the ghetto)  
On a cold and gray Chicago mornin',  
Another little baby child is born  
In the ghetto  
(In the ghetto)_

I didn't move until the next day. It all fell apart for me after that. His mother wasn't the only one to cry. I knew somewhere else in the vast city, a baby was being born into the same conditions in which he had been born in, raised in, killed in. But I'm still here. Those pleading black eyes still haunt me. I blame myself. If I hadn't told him it was alright to steal in the first place, we could have had a happy ending. I take the pain. He is gone. And I'm still here. Strange how things happen.

_And his mama cries  
In the Ghetto_

(**A closing note from the author:** Sadly, that is the end. There is no chance for a continuation or a sequel, so if you were expecting one, I am sorry, I cannot help you. You'll just have to write one yourself.)

Love Always,

Pepsi-Cola


End file.
